


Evangeline

by Anythingtoasted



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Batcave, Bathtubs, M/M, Men of Letters Headquarters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-08
Updated: 2013-05-08
Packaged: 2017-12-10 19:20:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/789228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anythingtoasted/pseuds/Anythingtoasted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>8.21 coda (of sorts). Bathtub stuff; fluffy. <i>"Dean's got a secret."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Evangeline

It’s not supposed to hold two full grown men; but, then, few things are. Dean watches as Castiel lowers himself into the tub. He hisses – just once, wearily – submerging himself in the water, ass to waist, his long calves rising from the water, knees bumping uncomfortably with Dean’s. Dean looks at him.

“This was a stupid idea.” He says conversationally, and Castiel looks down at himself – at the water – and snorts gently.

“It was.” But he makes no move to get out; he spreads his arms out over the rim of the bath, and leans his head back, eyes closed. His legs tangle more firmly with Dean’s as his muscles loosen; as he sinks, like no inhuman thing should be able, blissful into the water. He tips his head towards the ceiling; Dean, crushed to one end of the tub, his legs pulled up to his chest, is squashed, but content to look at him. Castiel tilts his head down, again, and looks at him. “Are you okay?”

Dean shuffles uncomfortably, the water swishing around his waist. “Told you it was stupid. We don’t fit.” Castiel makes a noise – half assent, half pure laziness – Dean nudges him with his foot. “Turn around.”

Castiel lifts his head, and looks at him dully – eyes half-lidded, expression half-blank – then acquiesces. He braces his hands on the sides of the bath, and lifts himself up; he crouches in the bath, and turns. It’s awkward – he steps on Dean’s ankle a couple of times – but he gets there, eventually, and sits in the back with his legs loosely folded in front of him, hands between them, his back inches from Dean’s chest. Dean shuffles forward, in the water, and presses his chin against his shoulder. He lifts a hand, and with his palm, spans the length of Castiel’s back. He wraps his other arm around his waist. Castiel sighs a little, like he’s being silly, but leans back against him nonetheless.

Dean’s got a secret.

He could fall asleep here, like this. The close-the-gates-of-hell thing is still going; Sam is still sick, Cas isn’t quite healed. A jagged scar still runs across Castiel’s abdomen, still red; still painful, though Castiel says little about it, either way.

Dean sighs damply against the round of Castiel’s shoulder. He closes his eyes, and he can hear the water moving around, can feel the steam from the bathwater on his face, thick and muggy. Every inch of him feels as if it’s been loosened, as if it’s just that little bit more  _open._ It’s the steam, he’d say, but he’s been feeling like this for the last couple of weeks; not just the couple of minutes it took them to run the water, to undress, to get in.

Dean’s got a secret.

Dean believes in love.

It’s shameful. Stupider than trying to fit the two of them comfortably into a bathtub five foot long. But, like most secrets, there’s not a lot he can do about it. Dean believes in love, in its power; believes in  _fate,_ in the ability for two people (or more) to love each other so much that it crosses boundaries, changes destinies. That it can push back the ocean, or blot out the sun.

He’s a fucking idiot. He knows that. Based on the evidence, it’s a wonder he believes in _anything,_ let alone  _love,_ like he’s a fucking Disney character; a clumsy terrier, a misfit toy. Even Sam might look at him funny, if he knew.

Castiel moves his hands from beneath the water, and peels Dean’s hand away from his chest. He links their fingers together.

“I love you so much.” He says, and lifts Dean’s hand to his mouth; kisses his wrist.  

Dean chokes against his skin, helplessly, and he feels Castiel’s laughter before he hears it.

“Yeah, well.” He murmurs, voice strained. He moves his legs; they bracket Castiel’s hips. He hooks his ankles with Cas’ own.

He hasn’t said the words, yet. He can’t. But he  _believes_ in it;keeps this secret sewn inside him, an extra thing to hum inside his chest. He hopes that like this – pressed flush against Castiel’s back, their hands entwined – Castiel can feel it. He hopes he knows. 


End file.
